


Remarkable In The Halls of History

by princesskay



Series: Claire/Frank Missing Scenes [4]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s03e01 Chapter 27, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fights, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: Unity is what separates the winners from the losers.Claire looks back on their first night in the White House residence as President and First Lady after watching a bombing in the middle of the night. A lot can change in the course of a few months.





	Remarkable In The Halls of History

She watches the screen flash to white in the overexposure of the blast. Women and children all dead for the sake of one man’s actions. 

_ The target has been neutralized.  _

It’s so formal and detached. So unfeeling. 

But she doesn’t flinch. She can’t - not when she’s so close to gaining the one thing that she has wanted for months now. If she doesn’t maintain a strong face now, she’s lost the nomination already. 

She doesn’t think of the children - she blocks them from her mind. They’ve evolved from precocious, fabricated beings climbing vines in her mind to real flesh and blood humans blown away in a cold act of political collateral, but she won’t cry for them as she once did. 

As they drive home in the utter silence of the limo backseat, she focuses on her goal. She focuses on the good she can do in the UN. She focuses on her tightly clasped hands, her knuckles turning bleached white, in her lap. 

Shadows and lamplight streak across her gaze as they turn down street upon street back toward Pennsylvania Avenue. 

She doesn’t think of the children - they’re no one to her. Faceless victims in a crusade for justice, or at the very least, American pride. 

What she thinks about is time, it’s relativity and it’s cruelty. 

It could have only been yesterday that she offered Francis the birthday gift of a new class ring right before he stepped into Oval Office as the forty-sixth President of the United States. It could have been seconds, breaths. 

But in those quiksilver moments, everything has changed. The nomination represents all that stands between them - the things they have ignored, the desires she has sacrificed. Like shadows at dusk, they have formed and taken shape with every moment of looming darkness. 

Francis’ gaze presses against her cheek from across the darkened limo, but she doesn’t turn her head to look at him. He’s analyzing her blink, every breath, every twitch of her fingers. He’s searching for the weak link in the chain of her emboldened heart - the spot that could snap her resolve to have the UN position. 

He won’t find it. 

She’s proud of herself for that realization. But pride only extends so far. 

There’s the joy and satisfaction in knowing the other half of your marriage so well that he would never before attempt what he’s attempting now. There’s mutual respect that’s been absent since he took office. 

She narrows her eyes against the faint sting of emotion. 

She wishes things were simpler, as they had been that first night in the White House residence. Her eyelids slip shut as she recalls the memories, each detail preserved and detailed like an artifact trapped in amber…

 

~

 

_ The White House aide leads them up the winding steps, her chin lifted and her mouth taut. She’s paid to be silent.  _

_ But it’s not the silence that strikes Claire. It’s the ease with which she carries herself past sculptures and paintings, monuments of presidents past, their stern faces looking down upon the newcomers with all the sobriety and expectation of history. Great men and women have walked these halls, climbed these steps, slept inside this mansion. There’s been backdoor deals, affairs, lies, fights, and perhaps a dozen more things the American public would be horrified to discover.  _

_ It’s not so much the expectation of achievement that makes her knees tremble, but the vulnerability of this position. The all-seeing, all-knowing eyes of the world, aided by the media and the press, are trained on them now. Concealment will be much more difficult from this point forward.  _

_ Do they have what it takes to stand beside the other con-artists who walked the steps they walk now?  _

_ She supposes after months, if not years, of working here, the aide has grown numb to awe and wonder. One day, after many long nights of fear and planning, she will too. The White House will feel much more like a pair of comfortable, worn-out slippers than the ill-fitting suit it does at this moment.  _

_ Francis’ hand wraps tighter around hers, dispelling those dubious thoughts.  _

_ “Here we are, Mr. President.” The aide says, slipping a key from her pocket.  _

_ She unlocks the doors, and hands over the key. “If you need anything, dial star one-one on the phone.”  _

_ “Thank you.”  _

_ The aide leaves them. Her steps echo down the stairs and across the lobby until a door slams behind her, and Claire and Francis are left alone in utter silence.  _

_ “Well … here we are.” Francis says.  _

_ She glances up to see him looking through the half-open door and into the residence.  _

_ This morning, he had walked into the Oval Office alone. But this will be the true center of their empire, and walking past this threshold together feels more significant than any other step they’ve taken previously.  _

_ She leans in to press a kiss against his mouth. Reaching up to cup her cheek, he tries to lean into the kiss, but she’s already ducked away.  _

_ “Let’s go.”  _

_ He plants his fingertips at the center of the door, and pushes. The hinges are well-oiled, and make no sound. They step past the frame in the same stride.  _

_ He eases the doors shut behind them, and reaches for the light switch. Warm light floods from above, tugging the veil of evening from the lavish furnishings. There’s a bottle of champagne in ice and two glasses on the coffee table below the huge, arched window on the opposite wall.  _

_ Claire crosses the room to the table. A small, white card with the White House insignia stamped in gold on the front sits in front of the bucket of ice. Picking it up, she flips it open to read the words typed within.  _

 

**Welcome home, President and Mrs. Underwood**

 

_ “What’s that?” Francis asks.  _

_ She hands it to him, in favor of hoisting the champagne bottle from the ice. She reads the label with a pleased smile.  _

_ “That’s very nice.” Francis says. Shifting around behind her, he notes the label of the bottle. “Someone on the staff did their research.”  _

_ “It’s late.” Claire says, “Should we?”  _

_ “We have to, don’t we?”  _

_ She chuckles softly.  _

_ She peels the seal from the top of the bottle to find it’s a screw lid instead of a cork, for ease. She cracks the bottle open, and pours out two frothing glasses.  _

_ Francis takes his, and lifts it to hers.  _

_ “To the future - so bright I can hardly see right now.”  _

_ “Mm.” Claire hums, tapping her glass against his. “To us … and overshadowing history.”  _

_ His eyes darken with glittering mischief. “When we’re done, they won’t remember Walker’s name.”  _

_ Clink.  _

_ They both drink with a thirst that can’t be quenched.  _

_ “We took care of Walker and China in the dark.” Claire says, “Our next step should be something visible, something appealing to the public as a whole-” _

_ “Hold on, hold on.” He says, waving a hand with an easy smile. “Claire, we just got here. We need to take a moment to celebrate. To drink it all in.”  _

_ “We’re more than halfway through a term. We have to stay focused.”  _

_ “And we will be. In the morning.”  _

_ He takes her glass from her hand, and sets both drinks down on the coffee table. As he straightens to meet her gaze, his hands circle her waist, and his mouth grazes her neck. His breath tickles her ear.  _

_ “Close your eyes.” He whispers, his voice weaving beneath her skin like velvet thread, “Let it sink in … capture this moment in your mind - you’ll need it later when there’s sleepless nights and even more stressful days.”  _

_ His palms spread out over her hips, and follow the swell of her backside. His fingers curl in to clutch her to him, nails biting through fabric and into skin. The reality of their situation melts away. She’s no longer standing on a guillotine, waiting for the blade to fall, but in a satin dream of trembling aches and the sticky-sweet honey of desire.  _

_ He can sweep her away like that, and for now, she lets him.  _

_ She clutches at his shoulders, detaching his mouth from her throat. As he lifts his head, she draws in a controlled breath.  _

_ “We should go to the bedroom.”  _

_ A smile creeps across his mouth.  _

_ Hands linked, they cross start across the room.  _

_ There’s two bedrooms, one on either side of the hall, both doors hanging open.  _

_ “Which one?” Claire asks.  _

_ Francis tugs her toward the one on his side. Stepping inside, he turns on the light and glances around the room.  _

_ “I believe this is the master suite.” He says, “For the President and his wife. I’ve only seen it in pictures.”  _

_ Claire wanders toward the bed, her fingers tugging at the buttons of her shirt. As the silk slides from her shoulders, she shakes it loose from her wrists, and reaches out to touch the bedspread.  _

_ “I wonder how many other Presidents and wives have done exactly what we’re doing now.”  _

_ “And how many of them haven’t?”  _

_ “I can imagine … Unity is what separates the winners from the losers.”  _

_ His fingers tug at the clasp of her bra.  _

_ She stills, tilting her head back and breathing in deep as need grows and swells in her belly like a stirring, hungry creature.  _

_ The bra snaps free. It falls swiftly, leaving her breasts swaying and aching. _

_ She leans back into his chest, arching into the gradual climb of his hands up her belly and ribs. At last, his fingertips brush against her nipples, nurturing the pulsing ache awakening between her thighs.  _

_ He pinches gently, and she gasps in a breath. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing, and she hadn’t realized how quickly need had reconfigured her brain. She’s not thinking about history, or expectations, or dread, or plans any longer.  _

_ One hand cradles her breast while the other presses against the curve of her spine. His thumb drags along the trembling arch until he finds the zipper of her skirt, and drags it down in a slow, torturous pace. Inch by inch, the fabric loosens and slips, until finally, it falls to meet her blouse and bra.  _

_ His breath rushes hot against the back of her neck, desire bleeding into every exhale. His palm flattens against her hip, dragging her back against him with a low grunt. His erection grinds into her backside through layers of fabric, but she can feel the powerful, pumping need, insatiable until he fills her.  _

_ “F-francis …” Her voice emits in a low whimper, strangled and helpless before she can conjure anything otherwise.  _

_ His fingers curl around the lace of her panties, yanking the delicate fabric from her waist and down her thighs, rending a gasp from her parted lips.  _

_ She stands still, as still as she can with desire tracking a blazing path through her middle, her eyes clenched shut, waiting. He touches her again, this time gently, his fingertips following weaving path down the swell of her ribs and the tremble of her belly. With a sharp dip, they slide between her thighs, against her labia, between them, and into her.  _

_ She gasps, rising to her toes as pleasure tears sudden and white-hot through her. His fingers cleave her, pumping in and out against her gushing wetness with merciless precision. She shifts her feet apart across the carpet, twisting her hips into the brutal rock of his fist. His knuckles, dull and hard, slap against her slick opening.  _

_ The pleasure, and the minor burn of sudden stimulation, race through her, flooding her brain with heavy, red doses of sex and orgasm. Her insides are melted and churned to frothing, pumping need, her belly heavy and clit aching with the hedging threat of climax.  _

_ She strains toward it with grinding teeth and bitten lips, thinking to breathe again only when his fingers ease to a gentle massage.  _

_ She sinks down against his chest, and leans her head back against his shoulders. She licks her lips, thirsty and exhilarated.  _

_ “Is that how you want it?” He murmurs against her ear.  _

_ She whimpers as his fingers slide from within her and spread her labia open in search of her clitoris. He finds it, swollen and tender, slick with her juices and ready to tighten with orgasm. His thumb brushes against the peak, sending quick, hot sparks like lightning through her body. She’s hardly recovered her senses before he brings the flat part of two fingertips against the puffy bud of flesh.  _

_ “Oh, Jesus!”  _

_ She presses a hand over her mouth just after the cry escapes, silencing any further unlikely prayers to a deity who couldn’t possibly stop what he’s doing to her now.  _

_ “Or like this?” He presses, satisfaction winding through every syllable.  _

_ She drags her hand from her mouth, taking a shaky, raspy breath. _

Just make me come, I don’t care how! _ The thought is quick to race through her mind, but it’s a dissatisfactory answer.  _

_ She closes her eyes, and swallows back that desperation, opting instead for something she knows he’ll appreciate.  _

_ “You’re the President.”  _

_ His breath rustles the hair at her nape, then dissipates with a slow, satisfied inhale. His fingers creep from between her legs, leaving a wet trail across her skin to her hip. His other hand reaches from her breast to the back of her neck, gripping there benignly for a brief moment before he bends her forcefully over the mattress.  _

_ She grabs onto handfuls of the sheets as her face meets the downy coverlet. She glances over her shoulder, just in time to see his trousers and his boxers stretching down to release his cock. Digging her toes into the carpet, she arches her hips up to meet the hot, pulsing head.  _

_ He pushes into her, a few shallow pumps to prime her quaking body before he quickens his pace.  _

_ The tempo is hard, and unrelenting. His hips smack into hers, and her hips push into the mattress. The mattress shifts, and the bedframe groans. She cries out louder than the protest of boards and springs, her voice leaving the first mark of passion in these walls. It’s insignificant among the other hundreds of accumulated voices, but for tonight, it’s the only one that matters.  _

_ The pleasure compounds within her with every stroke, but she dangles on the verge, just a few breaths between aching need and rushing climax.  _

_ He stops fucking her long enough to turn her over.  _

_ She flips onto her back, brain spinning with heady desire. She’s limp against the sheets as he crawls over her, and between her legs. She feels him pierce her again, and her mouth stretches open in a moan of fresh pleasure.  _

_ Orgasm circles within her, every clench and gasp tightening that orbit. Impatient, she reaches down to touch herself, but he catches her by the wrist.  _

_ Her eyes spring open as he pins both hands to the mattress.  _

_ Above her, his eyes a dark and flashing with well-recognized need that requires no words. Their gazes speak a battle of need and wills, and his hips drive against hers as if intending to break her. But that conclusion is quick to fade in the slow easing of his motions, the simmering passion melting down into tender, aching strokes.  _

_ He bends over her, his mouth hot and coarse against hers. She kisses back, her tongue slipping languid and wet over his lips. He pushes back with his own tongue, using it to lap up the tiny vibrations of her whimpers.  _

_ His thrusts ease, and at last, cessate.  _

_ Their mouths cling together, slick and panting, as the shaft of his cock glides along her wet slit. His cock nudges her clitoris, jarring a low moan from her. A long pause leaves her arching against the firm, hot pressure, eager for the velvet sensation of him massaging her clit.  _

_ He gives her another slow, aching stroke. She feels the dribble of pre-cum easing his passage.  _

_ A tremble laces through him, a shuddering breath seeping from between his lips. He releases her arms, and she wraps one around his neck, guiding his face to her throat. The other reaches between them, fingers pressing against the head of his cock. He gasps into her throat, but doesn’t protest her seizing control.  _

_ He rocks against her, and she opens her palm to accept the glide of his cock. She massages him while he massages her clit, dragging the pleasure to the surface with the soft, aching flesh of his weeping head.  _

_ The orgasm creeps upon her, winding around her chest and belly and spiraling between her legs. She feels it pumping through her veins toward her middle, each clench of muscle tipping her farther and farther over the edge. A gasp spills from her throat as the last clutch spills heat and pleasure through her, and her vision blanks to white in ecstasy.  _

_ She’s still rocking and quivering through the lingering tides of climax when he slips free of her fist, and plunges back into her gushing body. She’s tight and pulsing around him; she can feel every inch, the slight pang of his eager thrust.  _

_ Their motions are frantic now, skin blending together and bruising under grasp and bite. Red blooms across skin, bordered faintly by purple and white. They’re colors and sensations of mindless passion - romance traded in for violent, shared need.  _

_ Remarkable in the halls of history?  _

_ She doesn’t think of it anymore.  _

 

_ ~ _

 

_ After their showered and in clean pajamas, they lie in the huge bed built for Presidents and their wives, and drink the last of the champagne.  _

_ “I’ve just thought of something.” Francis says.  _

_ “What’s that?”  _

_ “Garrett and Trisha.” He says, “This is where they fought … about us.”  _

_ “How do you know?”  _

_ “Their marriage was falling apart. Spurned sexual advances … they always turn into a fight, not about sex, but about all the reasons you don’t want to have it anymore.”  _

_ “Let’s not think of them.”  _

_ She lays her head against his shoulder, and closes her eyes. The moment feels just about perfect - the only light on is the lamp, bathing them in warm, golden light. The sheets are soft and clean, smelling of soap. She’s wearing her favorite silk pajamas, and the fabric is divine against her freshly washed skin. She still hums with the aftershocks of pleasure.  _

_ She knows it won’t last, but wishes it would.  _

_ “Okay, let’s not.” He says, reaching up to cradle her cheek. “That’s never going to be us.”  _

_ “No, no it’s not.”  _

 

~

 

“Claire, we’re here.” 

She opens her eyes to see that they’ve just pulled up in front of the White House. The structure is silhouetted by a gray sky, no longer pitch black, but still clinging to the darkness in the small hours of the morning. 

She steps out of the limo, and walks around the hood to where Francis waits for her. The Secret Service agents escort them to the front door, but stay behind as they cross the lobby to the stairs leading up to the residence. 

A grim smile touches her mouth as she recalls that first journey up those stairs. The comfort of home came faster than she expected, and the great weight of history lifted more swiftly than she’d imagined. 

Her mind is taken by much larger issues than past presidents and first ladies. 

Francis trails behind her, and again, she senses him trying to gauge her reaction to the bombing. 

She pauses halfway up the stairs, staving off what feels like defeat. 

“I still want it.” She whispers. 

He utters a low sigh as he climbs to the stairs to join her. There’s resignation in his eyes. 

“All right.” He says, putting his arm around her. Then softer, with acceptance, as they climb the stairs, “All right.” 

They walk together into the residence, hand-in-hand as they had that first night. But there’s no champagne awaiting them, and with the gradual nausea churning through her belly, no sex, no pleasure. 

His fingers tug on hers as she veers toward the bedroom. 

She turns grudgingly, her gaze drifting off towards the carpet. 

“Claire, you know, I only ever have your best interests in mind.” 

She nods, forcing a smile to her mouth. 

A small frown creases his brow. His gaze presses hope into hers, silently begging her not to be mad. 

_ I have every right to be mad. To be furious.  _

She closes her eyes against the vicious thought. It’s too late, or perhaps too early, to fight. 

He takes her lax expression as something different, and kisses her gently. 

She responds, just enough to make him accept it as it is and lean away. 

She steps back, but his hands clutch her hips. 

Silence yawns between them, but their gazes connect, saying, if not screaming, much more. In the vacuum of the space between them, the silence is deafening, but she can hear him just fine. 

_ Let me in. Let me show you I still love you.  _

She breaks free of his grip, perhaps too hastily. 

“I’m tired, Francis.” She says, “It’s the middle of the night. I’m going back to bed.” 

“Of course.” The resignation is hard-fought this time, though no less softer in verbalization. 

“Good night.” She says. 

“‘Night.” 

She turns and escapes to her bedroom, her solitude, before he can convince her otherwise. Pressing the doors shut behind her, she leans against the wood slats and counts her breaths until the knot in the back of her throat dissolves. 

She opens her eyes to the bedroom, a thought leaping unbidden to the forefront of her mind. 

Had Trisha ever stayed here? 

Had she spurned her husband’s advances as Francis suggested, and fled to the safety of these walls? Had she cried, not knowing Claire plucked her strings like a venomous puppeteer behind the curtain?  

_ That’s not us.  _ She thinks, carving the words into her brain with adamant resolve. 

The UN position is one job, one fight. And he’ll give in, just like he always does, and they’ll find their way back to one another. 

She strips out of her clothes, not caring to put on her pajamas before she climbs in bed. She lays against the satin sheets, but doesn’t sleep. Meanwhile, the mantra circles through her brain -  _ That’s not us. It never will be.  _

 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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